


Keep your enemies closer

by October_rust



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Enemy Mine - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Iorveth is none too pleased when Roche saves his life and gets wounded in the process. (Takes place in an AU where Iorveth is pardoned and starts fighting for Temeria)
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 14
Kudos: 135





	Keep your enemies closer

Roche wakes up with a start. There's a nagging sense of unease, cold and slithery, raising goosebumps on his arms and speeding up his pulse. Something is wrong. 

He rolls on his side, hisses in pain when the sudden movement pulls at his stitches, and grabs for the sword propped up beside the bed. 

“That won't be necessary,” a voice says, amused. Iorveth's voice. “Though you're as ever vigilant, captain. Commendable.”

Roche lowers his hand, but his heartbeat refuses to settle. Allies, he tells himself sternly, they are allies. Battling Nilfgaard together, fighting for free Temeria. Get used to it already, you jittery fool. 

“What are you doing in my room?” He doesn't add “captain.” There's no need for formalities when it's the middle of the night, and no soldiers can hear them. And yes, Iorveth is a fellow officer now, his rank equal to Roche's own, and yet ...

Roche takes a deep breath, rubs at his eyes. Only when the grogginess and apprehension abate somewhat does he finally look at Iorveth.

“What do you want?” he repeats.

The glow from the fireplace is glinting off the clasps and buckles of Iorveth's uniform. Not so different from the leathers and chain mail he used to wear; still, the Temerian colours and white lilies are enough to mark Iorveth's new allegiance in a clear and indisputable way. He's sprawled in the chair, with his long legs comfortably stretched out to bask in the warmth. A lazy smile is playing about his lips, as he taps his fingertips against the captain's badge pinned to his breast. The very picture of indolence – were it not for his gaze, trained on Roche with a cold, unwavering intensity.

“Why,” Iorveth says, dragging the sound. “I've come to thank you. For saving my life.”

Roche shrugs, ignoring another stab of pain. “You're welcome. Now, can I go back to sleep?”

Iorveth narrows his eye. The firelight makes it gleam golden, wolf-like. “You've taken the blow meant for me. Risked everything just to help me, oh-so-nobly. Why?”

The irony cannot mask Iorveth's anger. It's palpable – a strange, volatile energy cracking in the air between them. Roche feels his muscles tense in an instinctive response, his throat suddenly dry. However, he doesn't reach for the sword.

“I saved you because you're a Temerian officer,” he says, his voice steady. “Because you're useful to Temeria. And Temeria is the only thing that matters.”

Iorveth's fingers still on his badge. “Is that so?” 

With a deceptive slowness, he gets to his feet, and crosses over to Roche's bedside. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, as he sits down. 

“I'm in your debt, dh' --” Iorveth cuts himself off, his smile growing crooked. He shakes his head, mockingly contrite. “Captain. Do forgive me, old habits.”

Ah, so this is the cause of Iorveth's foul mood.

“There is no debt,” Roche says calmly, even though Iorveth's proximity sends shivers down his spine. Too close, much too close. Through the furs and blankets, he can feel the hard line of Iorveth's thigh, nudging against his own. “Kindly bugger off, _captain,_ and leave me be.”

“No.” Just like that, gone is the polite veneer. Iorveth fixes him with an icy glare, and his next words are clipped, seething with a barely restrained fury. “Show me the wound.”

Roche's heart lurches – whether it's excitement, fear, or his fraying temper, he cannot tell. But he raises his brow and looks Iorveth straight in the eye, as he grabs at the hem of his shirt and tugs it up to reveal his left side.

“There,” he says. “Happy?”

The medics, Melitele bless them, did their best to patch him up. Truth be told, it's nothing more than a reddened line that stretches from his armpit to his ribs, itching and throbbing whenever he forgets himself and moves his arm too quickly. And, given that he has a roof over his head and a comfortable bed in a cosy room that the army has requisitioned for him to recuperate in for a few days – well, he has rarely experienced such luxuries during wartime. He will be fine.

Yet Iorveth doesn't seem pleased with the sight. If anything, his features darken further, the scar pulling taut across his cheek.

“You stupid, reckless dh'oine,” he says, after a moment of silence. “A few inches to the right and ...”

His fingertips brush over the stitches, feather-light. All at once, heat suffuses Roche's mending skin; an odd, tingling sensation spreads in the wake of Iorveth's touch. Not enough to aggravate the pain, no, just … 

Distracting.

“So what?” Roche scoffs. “I've had worse. Stop fussing over me.”

Iorveth doesn't answer. He looks up, meeting Roche's gaze, while his other hand comes to rest on Roche's stomach. Almost as if he's daring Roche to either jerk away in mindless alarm, or to lean into the firm press of his palm. 

Roche chooses neither. He holds still, staring back without blinking, trying his best not to react. 

His muscles, though, still jump and coil, and his pulse is racing again, the rush of blood drumming in his ears. His awareness narrows down to those long, clever fingers, roughened from the bowstring and the sword, tracing absent-minded patterns all over his abdomen. 

“I said stop fuss--” 

Suddenly, there's a fist clenched in his hair, yanking him forward. The rest of the sentence dissolves into a grunt, as Iorveth's mouth slams against his. Vicious and punishing; just the way the elven bastard fights, striking in the blur of movement, exploiting every weakness, dancing amongst his foes. 

Deadly, sharp, and beautiful.

And right now he's using the same tactics: reducing Roche's defences to tatters, taking advantage of every involuntary gasp, pushing further, giving no chance to retreat. Rage and passion mingle into one potent storm; the force of it steals Roche's breath away and makes him grip at Iorveth's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.

He should shove the bastard away, he should punch him right in the … 

Then, with one last angry bite, it's over. 

Dazed, his chest heaving, Roche slumps back onto the pillows. Damn you, elf, he thinks. He licks at his lips, chasing after the taste, wanting to memorize the ruthless press of Iorveth's mouth.

“I don't need your heroics,” Iorveth says. Despite his aloof tone, his gaze is burning with some dark and unnameable emotion. His fingers caress Roche's side once more, oddly gentle. “You'd do well to remember that, _captain._ ”

“Like hell I will,” Roche mutters. Thoughts whirling, his whole body aching for more, he reaches out and touches the badge on Iorveth's breast. “ _Captain._ ”


End file.
